Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

—a postscript	By : Jad Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Albus Severus/Scorpius Views: 1365 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Part One
- 1
Author Notes & Warnings: This is not just a story about sex; there is an overall plot. Boysex just happens to help it along. Any feedback is appreciated. Despite the hints, this is not also H/D... their relationship just happens to evolve a bit along the way, too.

Next Gen. Post-War. Adheres to canon, books 1-7, and about 95% of the epilogue (a few minor, secondary character facts adjusted). There will be het, slash, sex, affairs, torture, betrayal, and then some. This is a work-in-progress. Consider yourselves warned.

Part One

Diagon Alley, August, 2023

. . .

'Morning.'

The goblin, who is inspecting several rubies the size of golf balls, proceeds to ignore the remark for another minute while he finishes scribbling down notes upon his parchment. He sighs, slowly, as if conversing with a wizard at this hour of the morning is the last thing in the world he wishes to have to do, and raises his head. He blinks several times, and immediately sits up straight.

'Young Mr Malfoy,' he says, and clears his throat. 'Excuse me, sir, for I—did not recognise you.'

Scorpius, un-vexed, ignores him. 'I want to make a withdrawal.'

'Of course, sir,' the goblin says quickly, and snaps his fingers behind the counter. 'Gritgnuk!'

Gritgnuk comes scurrying forward, moving to the front of the counter, and takes the proffered key with an over-zealous bow. Scorpius recognises him easily; only a small, elite portion of the staff is familiar with the lower ring of vaults, most of which belong to age-old families that are nearly as ancient as the bank itself.

Gritgnuk looks around, then peers up at Scorpius with his eyebrows raised.

'My father won't be joining us, if that's what you're waiting for,' he snaps in response to the unspoken query.

Rude and stubborn creatures though they may be, goblins have a reputation for being quick and clever for a good reason; Gritgnuk clearly hears the irritation in his voice and leads him to the chutes without a word.

It takes the better part of half an hour to reach the vault, make his withdrawal, and return to the main floor. Gritgnuk returns his key and hurries away to address another barked command. The goblin he spoke to earlier that morning seems rather surprised to see him again. 'Everything all right, sir?' he enquires mildly.

Scorpius dumps a large sack of Galleons on the counter. 'I want to make an exchange.'

The goblin looks at him like one might regard a cow asking to buy a pound of veal. Recovering quickly, he peers inside the sack, eyeing the golden coins curiously. 'How much, sir?'

Scorpius smirks. 'All of it.'

. . .

'Oh, Dad, come on,' James pleads, fluttering his eyelashes in a way that would send any teenage girl swooning. 'You had a Firebolt when you were twelve!'

'Thirteen,' Harry amends, unfazed. 'Almost fourteen, actually. Did you get all of your books?'

'Bought and paid for by a bloody criminal!' James continues in outrage.

'He wasn't a criminal,' Harry corrects him. 'Watch your language. And I'm pretty sure I earned it.'

'I can conjure a Patronus,' James points out. 'And I got an "Outstanding" in Defence last year!'

'Took you long enough,' Harry remarks. 'Tell you what—if you battle off an army of Dementors on your own, I'll buy you the broom. Did you get your books?'

'Remember when I said all I wanted for my seventeenth was the bike? I've changed my mind, okay?'

Over James' pleading, Albus answers his father, 'Yes, Lily's too.'

Harry nods. 'Thank you.' Then to James, 'You're not getting my bike, either.'

'Dad,' James says in a tone that suggests he will not be so easily thwarted. 'Seriously. Look!' He points unnecessarily at the main window of Quality Quidditch Supplies, where the new Eclipse model gleams tauntingly at them. 'Can't you recognise love at first sight? It's practically moaning, "My one true love, the things we could do together—"'

'Yeah, that's just what you need,' Harry interrupts, rolling his eyes. Albus coughs loudly into his hand.

'Hey, I can't help it if I'm popular,' says James, running his hand proudly through his hair.

Albus pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, bringing the broom into sharp focus through the glass window. 'At least he couldn't get the broom pregnant,' he points out.

'True,' Harry says, feigning consideration. He turns to face James, who has lit up hopefully at this Very Good Point. James almost instantly deflates at the look on his father's face. 'The answer's still no. Seven owls from McGonagall last term alone, James.'

'At least three of those were gross exaggerations,' James explains. 'And the rest were horrible, horrible lies written by Slytherins who don't want me to thrash them in the Cup this year.'

'You're thrashing them fine with your Aspect,' Harry says firmly.

'She's served her time,' James goes on, desperately running out of arguments. 'She's getting weak in the twigs. The pangs of age, and all that. It'd be cruel to grind her through another season.' Seeing that his father is no longer listening, James sidesteps in front of him. He is as tall as Harry now, but skinnier; his shoulders still need filling-out. 'Please, Dad. Come on, you don't want those slimy, no-good gits to have the edge—'

Albus clears his throat. 'One of those "slimy, no-good gits" is standing right here.'

'Quiet, snake,' James says offhandedly, still trying to appeal to Harry, who is now walking ahead of them towards No. 93. 'My point is that you know Malfoy's going to come swaggering into the hall with an Eclipse on his shoulder, and I swear to Merlin if I have to listen—'

'Hey, Ron,' Harry says, ignoring his son. Ron is outside the shop, restocking the latest inventions of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes on the window-shelf.

Ron tosses his head in greeting, hands too full of what look like highly explosive mice, smoking from the ears, to allow him to wave. 'Mornin'. You lot out getting your books? You haven't seen Hugh around, have you?'

'He's probably died from a broken heart inside the Quidditch shop,' James says, clutching at his own chest. 'I think I may go join him.'

'Oh, yeah,' Ron says, shrugging. 'I wanted to get him the broom, but Hermione'd have my head.'

'You are all terrible parents.'

'The worst,' Harry says, at length, before turning to Ron. 'Have you eaten yet?'

'No,' Ron says, and, at the prospect of food, hurriedly empties the mice into the box on the shelf. Albus peers curiously inside and sees that they are whizzing from one side to the other, emitting loud bangs and cracks as they smash into one another. 'Hermione's meeting me at the Leaky in a bit, if you want to come.'

'I refuse to eat,' James says, sounding very melodramatic. 'My stomach has joined the Strike Against Terrible Parents.'

'Do us a favour, then, would you?' Ron says, unconcerned. 'Go find Hugo. You two can cry out your sorrows together.'

'Mum would buy me the broom,' James declares by way of farewell. 'Mum would understand!'

'She probably would, too,' Ron says, grinning at Harry, once James is out of earshot.

'She's the reason he's spoiled rotten. Her and that mother of yours,' Harry says, mock-bitterly. He looks sideways at Albus. 'You finally going to try out for the team this year?'

'If I do, will you buy me the broom?' Albus asks, smirking.

'I'd seriously consider it,' Harry says with a smile. 'You're going to waste.'

'Yeah, but if I get on the team and do as well as you think I will, then Gryffindor would lose the Cup,' Albus points out. 'And then—'

'We'd never hear the end of it,' Harry agrees.

'Until he moves out,' Albus adds, as an afterthought.

'It's not hard to see why the Hat threw him into Slytherin,' Ron says offhandedly, laughing.

. . .

Ron and Hermione are celebrating the beginning of the new school year by going on a two-week holiday somewhere very warm with blue water and white sand, or so Albus overheard at dinner the night before. Hugo and Rose stayed the night and are travelling to King's Cross with them; Rose is thankfully as organised as her mother, or they may never have made it out of the house. Harry is muttering under his breath that he's never understood how Molly could get five kids to school without going insane when Albus drags his trunk down the stairs.

'Got everything?' Albus nods. 'Good. Where's your sister?'

'Deciding which robes to wear.'

'For crying out—LILY!' His voice echoes up the stairs.

A moment later Lily answers, 'I can't find my quills!'

A large, red, rather ragged-looking Quaffle flies past Harry's ear; he catches it swiftly, without losing a beat, a moment before it would have upset the vase on the kitchen table.

'Phwoar,' Hugo breathes, coming to retrieve the ball. At just fifteen, he's almost as tall as Harry already, and built like a bull, as if he'd been engineered to play a Beater. 'I thought that was a goner. Sorry, Uncle Harry.'

'It's fine. Are you ready? Rose, too? Where's—James, go help your sister find her quills.'

Rolling his eyes, James takes off up the stairs. Getting ready for school is always a chore when their mum's away. She makes it look easy, Harry always says. Handling packs is in her blood, or something. Albus sometimes wonders if his father would have had kids at all if his mother hadn't wanted them so badly.

Getting out of the house is the hardest part. After that, all Harry has to do is make sure he doesn't misplace anyone on the way, and the train will take care of the rest. They make it to King's Cross at the last minute, as they usually do, with the train whistling its five-minute warning as Albus crosses through the barrier onto Platform 9 ¾. Dominique is already waiting for them, or rather waiting for James, leaning against the side of the train carriage as they approach. He's taller than James, with fairer skin and far more freckles, his long, strawberry-blonde hair pulled into a ponytail at the base of his neck. Bill and Fleur wave in greeting from the other side of the platform.

'About bloody time,' he calls, grinning.

James makes a rude hand gesture that Harry quickly extinguishes with a severe look. 'All right, get a move on, it won't wait,' Harry says, ushering them all towards the train.

'He would know,' James says cheekily.

'If I get an owl before the week's over, I'll be Flooing your mother,' Harry warns.

'I'll make sure he behaves,' Dominique promises.

'Same goes for you,' Harry adds, not fooled. 'Al, look after your sister—yes, Lily, I'll owl you the quills. Go.'

'So pushy,' James sniffs, lugging his trunk onto the train.

'He has no faith in us anymore,' Dom agrees solemnly.

'Wouldn't have anything to do with that toilet seat you sent Teddy,' Albus remarks.

'Quiet, snake,' James says, his tone a little less friendly than it was a moment ago. The change is expected, and it doesn't really bother Albus. You can't appear to be too friendly to a Slytherin if you're a Gryffindor, even if he is your little brother. 'Where are we going? See if you can find Violet's compartment—'

'She's all full-up, looks like Cody beat you to her,' Lily announces, peeking inside the compartment to their left. A loud, familiar giggle comes from inside, making both Albus and Lily grimace. 'I'm going to find Olivia, I'll see you guys.' Wordlessly, Hugo follows her. Albus watches them go in despair, wishing he could slip away unnoticed. But James would catch him before he got two feet.

The compartment to their right also has the curtains drawn. Albus quickly recognises the voices inside; so does James.

'Ugh, snake pit. Come on,' he says, heaving his trunk further down the corridor.

Albus doesn't argue—the last time he tried to sit with Slytherins on the train, James made a loud, public declaration about how they had nine and a half months to try to taint and corrupt him, but he wouldn't be giving them one minute more with his brother than he had to. Not that Albus particularly desires to be forced into their company; most of the Slytherins treat him like a Gryffindor spy, anyway. In all fairness, he pretty much is; James can get any information out of his brother that he wants if he plays his cards right—and he always does.

Sighing, he follows James down the corridor.

The ride to Hogwarts is largely uneventful, at least for Albus, as he spends most of it sitting in the corner of the compartment watching his brother make a fool out of himself. James and Seán Finnigan have entered in a running contest to see who can get the most snogs before the train arrives, and so far James is winning by double figures. Dominique refrains from participating; he's what James likes to call 'the weird, monogamous one', and refuses to snog anyone that isn't Elizabeth Smith. Albus thinks it's something to do with his mum warning him to be careful with the 'Veela-stuff' but James says this is clearly nonsense, and it's obviously because he is French.

'More for me,' James declares, waving a dismissive hand. His eyes wander over to Albus, who is lounging comfortably in Dom's shadow. 'What about you, snake? You'd do all right, if you gave it a shot.'

'I don't want any venereal diseases, but thanks.'

'You're hilarious,' James says, deadpan. 'Really, would it kill you to have a little fun?'

'I have plenty of fun,' he says, and when James raises an eyebrow, continues, smirking, 'just when you're not looking, Jamie.'

'Don't call me that, snake.'

'Sure thing, Jamie.'

'He hasn't snogged anyone yet,' Seán interjects, smirking. 'Have you, squirt?'

'Shut it, Finnigan,' James snaps, in accordance with his somewhat unique philosophy—that he may pick on his little brother as much and as often as he pleases, but that it is his right alone—but is immediately distracted from telling Finnigan off any further. 'Ooh, there's Lesley Bell—bugger off,' he growls as Seán dashes out of the compartment, calling after him in a hiss, 'I saw her first!'

'Finders keepers, Potter!'

'I should probably go check in with the prefects,' Dominique announces, standing.

James wrinkles his nose. 'Traitor.'

Dominique shrugs, opening the compartment door. 'You're just miffed I get my own room.'

'Inside which you will be breaking at least a dozen different school rules,' James points out. Dom smirks as he leaves, James' head following him outside calling at the top of his voice, 'Copulation outside of marriage is a sin, you know!'

'Head Boy,' he mutters, slumping back into his seat, having little left to do now that both his best friends are elsewhere and he has only his snakey-sibling for company. He gives Albus a very serious look. 'If you're Head Boy next year, I'll disown you.'

'I'm not even a prefect,' Albus points out.

'Yeah, well, you're not completely without hope,' James agrees, propping his feet on the bench next to Albus. 'Who actually wants to be Head Boy, anyway? Just a load of extra work, and you have to listen to everybody whinge about everything.'

'Well,' says Albus, shrugging, 'he also gets to take points.'

Something bright lights up in James' dark eyes, and Albus can practically hear the gears inside of his head processing this piece of information he's clearly been overlooking.

'Ooh, yes.' Rubbing his hands together like a fiend, he smiles brilliantly at Albus. 'Nothing personal, snake, but your lot is toast.'

. . .

Dominique didn't especially want to be Head Boy, though he doesn't particularly mind the prospect, either. It's earned his aunt's recognition, which according to his entire family certainly counts for something, and he does get his own room—which he is willing to bet James will use for more illicit purposes than he even wants to think about. And, as his father pointed out, it looks great on a resume; just look at their uncle, scribe to the Minister fresh out of Hogwarts; and so on, and so forth.

Either way, Dominique was happy enough to accept the offer. Although if the Headmistress thinks that his being Head Boy will keep James Potter in line, well, then maybe it's about time for her to retire anyway.

Madison Buckley is waiting at the door; she is a petite, squirrelish Ravenclaw with bright eyes hidden behind thick-framed glasses, and is serving as his counterpart Head Girl. She blushes when he says hello, which isn't entirely unusual; she tends to blush whenever anybody notices her existence. It looks as if most of the other prefects have already assembled in the compartment designated for their pre-term meeting. He takes the register anyway, just to make sure. There are some new prefects he doesn't recognise, and...

'Wait, where's Malfoy?'

A short, cold cough draws his attention to the back, where icy eyes are lurking in the shadows of the Ravenclaw prefects, Susan Willows and Haydan Bray.

Dominique blinks at him. 'Did you—'

'Does it matter?' Scorpius demands coldly. Dom doesn't answer immediately; beside Scorpius, Jocelyn Rosier cracks her gum, loudly, the sound breaking the silence like a whip.

Bloody Slytherins. Dominique shrugs. 'Just asking. Anyway—'

. . .

Harry sighs as the train pulls out of the station, taking with it an enormous weight off his shoulders. It's not that he minds the kids being home; if anything, both he and Ginny miss them terribly when they are at school. It's just that with the two of them juggling full work schedules, it is always more exhausting than it is gratifying to have the summer holidays roll around; summer is a busy time, for both of them—the Quidditch Cup, in particular, can keep Ginny away for months at a time.

By the time he gets to work, it is half past eleven, but as he is the boss, it really doesn't matter. Kingsley is waiting for him in his office, staring at the world map on the far wall, still marked with a dozen or so red pins.

'Kids all off?' Harry nods. 'We need to talk.' Oh, great, Harry thinks, and waits for it. 'Your department is currently paying out more overtime—'

'We already talked about that—'

'—than every other department combined,' Kingsley finishes firmly. 'It's one thing to have two or three Aurors pulling overtime on every paycheque, it's another if it's the entiredepartment. Especially when most of your department consists of senior Aurors who make at least three times as much as your recruits—'

'That is the problem, though,' Harry says, frustrated. 'We don't have any recruits. We've had maybe a dozen or so rookies in the past two years, and more than half of them haven't made the cut. I can't force people to apply for the job; I'm doing the best I can with what I have.'

'I know, I'm not blaming you, Harry, relax.' Kingsley rubs his temple, looking less like the Minister in the Prophet and more like the Auror Harry once once fought beside. 'We just need to figure something out. After the war, everyone just dropped everything to celebrate,' he continues, sighing. 'Since then, it's almost as though they've forgotten we needed Aurors before the Dark Lord.'

'I've got my hands full as it is,' Harry tells him. 'I don't have time to work on recruiting campaigns, I'm handling the job of a team on my own here.'

'I know you are, which is why I'm sending you help for that,' Kingsley says, standing and moving towards the door. 'Just try not to scare him out of the office, all right? And give Weasley a Floo, will you?'

'I already have.'

Kingsley turns back around, eyebrow raised. 'And?'

'And he says he'll think about,' Harry says. 'He's on holiday. You do know what those are, don't you?

'Can't say I'm familiar with the term,' Kingsley says, smirking as he closes the door. 'I've never had one.'

'Yeah, me neither,' Harry mutters, slumping down at his desk.

. . .

Dominique leaves them at Hogsmeade station to help escort the first-years up to the castle, and the space at James' side is quickly filled, in addition to Seán, by Nikolas Sloper and Clarrisa Vane, both also seventh-year Gryffindors. Albus initially thought Clarissa to be something of a tomboy, but has come to the realisation that she is actually desperately in love with his older brother without any hope that he'll ever notice that she is, in fact, of the female variety. She isn't exactly unfortunate looking, but nor is she remarkable—certainly not the slim, clear-skinned, Greek-goddess that James intends to marry. She seems content enough in his company, though, and is always nice to Albus despite his Slytherin status; she smiles in greeting as they pile into a carriage.

Nikolas is in the midst of recounting all the injuries he managed to sustain over the summer while trying out the new Eclipse (his father is the Chief Editor of Which Broomstick, which means that whenever a new model comes out, Nik is suddenly the most popular bloke in school) and holds the attention of everyone except James, who keeps glaring out the window, which Albus is surprised to notice has yet to crack under the pressure.

'Mum'll probably send you the broom,' Albus says finally. Displays of empathy are not his greatest strength—improvisational sarcasm has always been much more his forte—but he figures he ought to try. A gloomy James spells trouble for everybody, especially Slytherins.

'If she ever comes home,' James mutters, eyes flickering to his brother. 'They're on their fifth week, now.'

The Quidditch World Cup always takes Mum away from home for at least two weeks—that's when the game only lasts a day or two. She always manages to get them good tickets, since she knows everybody in the circuit, but occasionally a game will last several weeks and they'll hardly see her at all. It bothers Lily the most out of all of them, being crammed in a house with nothing but 'an overdose of testosterone' for the entire summer. Albus, however, suspects that her complaints are due more to the fact that she is the only one who knows how to cook.

'Maybe you can appeal to McGonagall,' Albus suggests. 'She got Dad the Nimbus, after all.'

James seems to consider this for a moment. 'This,' he says, 'is why you got tossed into Slytherin. You have all these ideas.' He spits the word, as if it were a sin. 'But not a bad point, snake. S'worth a shot, at least. Dad still wants you to try out, you know.'

'You'd have Sloper murder me with a Bludger,' Albus points out.

'I would, but you'd deserve it. Playing for the snakes! Honestly. I still reckon they should allow you to be re-Sorted,' James declares, as he does every year. 'I mean, really, that soggy old Hat probably went mad years ago.'

'Dad was almost in Slytherin,' Albus points out.

'"Almost" being the operative word.'

'I don't mind it,' Albus says, shrugging. 'Don't know why you do.'

'The hell you don't mind it! McGonagall had to kick you out of our common room like fifty times in your first year.'

Because you kept dragging me in, Albus thinks, but simply shrugs again. 'It's all right. They're not so bad, you know. Most of them just leave me alone.'

James gives him another look, a look Albus knows far too well, that says he knows Albus won't tattle on anyone, whether they deserve it or not, because Albus never wants to cause a fuss where one can be avoided. Albus avoids his gaze, instead looking out the window to the castle, which grows larger with every rickety step the carriage takes.

Thankfully, James is distracted by Nikolas waving Which Broomstick under his nose, and he leaves Albus to it. Hogwarts glimmers brilliantly through the rain-spattered window, poised high over the lake, a supernatural temple awaiting its guests to spoil with feasts and knowledge. He often walks the halls of the school, wondering about its great history, the thousands of witches and wizards who have passed through the same halls over the centuries, and what stories their lives held. And, more interesting yet, what stories the castle will continue to hold long after they've all gone.

Not that he ever shares these thoughts, though. James would laugh him right out of the castle.

. . .

The Great Hall is a dazzling sight to behold, with thousands of lit candles floating overhead, the deep, inky sky bleeding down from the ceiling. Large groups of students break off from one another as they enter, quickly filling the long, glossy wooden tables positioned under their house flags. James ruffles his hair with a grin, calling, 'Later, snake!' as he heads towards the Gryffindor table, surrounded by a throng of his friends.

Albus straightens his glasses and wanders to the Slytherin table alone, eyes searching the length of the bench. The familiar splash of white amongst the seated crowd is nowhere to be seen; Albus furrows his brow, and takes a seat between the Zabini twins, both of whom greet him with cold indifference.

'Wotcher, snake.'

Albus looks up quickly to find what he is looking for right across from him. Silver eyes glitter smartly back at him, and he blinks several times as he looks Scorpius over. He adopted James' nickname for him sometime back in second year; Albus actually minds it less coming from him, because he knows that Scorpius doesn't really mean it.

'Nice hair,' Albus remarks. 'Have you been disinherited yet?'

Scorpius smirks, making the skin around his eyes and nose crinkle pleasantly. His hair, which had been getting rather long, has been cut shockingly short and styled with something sticky to give it the look of a casual, tousled mess. What is most surprising is the colour; the white-blonde has been changed to a deep black, whether by magic or some Muggle concoction, Albus doesn't yet know. It is remarkable how much paler he looks with it now, rather than the unicorn-like mane everyone is used to.

'Father's got more important things to do than attempt to discipline his delinquent offspring,' Scorpius drawls, in a tone that suggests this to be quoted verbatim. His eyes are still the same, though. That much is reassuring to Albus, and he smirks back.

Any further conversation will have to wait; Albus tries to speak with Malfoy as sparingly as possible when his brother is around, even if he is at the far end of the hall. James has what he likes to call a 'sixth sense' that allows him to detect when any Slytherins are giving Albus grief, and fly in for the rescue. This usually ends up with any number of Slytherins in the infirmary and all of those involved serving detentions.

The Sorting is the painfully long, terribly boring affair it always is, forcing them all to sit in wait of a long-expected meal their growing bodies desperately need. Albus is often surprised to find how much food he can devour in one sitting; while his eating habits are as nothing compared to James' in terms of speed or quantity, he still manages to consume far more than can be considered healthy. By the time the puddings vanish, he feels much like he imagines a beached whale must, his overstuffed stomach trying to metabolise the cauldron's worth of shepherds' pie, stew, sausages, gravy, potatoes, yams, and Yorkshire puddings inside. McGonagall is saying something important about the Forbidden Forest and he is truly, honestly trying to listen, but can think of little other than his large, warm four-poster waiting in the dungeons.

Scorpius kicks him hard under the table and he has to bite down sharply on his tongue to keep from yelping.

'...and the Quidditch tryouts will be held this Saturday; all those interested, see your House captains...'

Albus gives Scorpius a dangerous look, clearly expressing 'No.', but Scorpius, being the evil, conniving bastard that he is, smirks viciously back in a loud, resounding, 'Oh, yes.'.

. . .
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—a postscript